of the stock-whips rang along the water. Norah's was only a light whip,
half the length and weight of the one her father carried. It was
beautifully plaited--a special piece of work, out of a special hide;
while the handle was a triumph of the stockman's art. It had been a
gift to Norah from an old boundary rider whose whips were famous, and
she valued it more than most of her possessions, while long practice
and expert tuition had given her no little skill in its use,

She worked through the scrub, keeping her eyes in every direction, for
the cattle were lazy and did not stir readily, and it was easy to miss
a motionless beast hidden behind a clump of dogwood or Christmas
bush--the scrub tree that greets December with its exquisite white
blossoms. When at length she came to the end of her division and drove
her cattle out of the shelter she had quite a respectable little mob to
add to those with which her father was already waiting.

It was only to be a rough muster; rather, a general inspection to see
how the bullocks were doing, for the nearest stockyards were at the
homestead, and Mr. Linton did not desire to drive them far. He managed
to get a rough count along a fence--Norah in the rear, bringing the
bullocks along slowly, so that they strung out under their owner's eye.
Occasionally one would break out and try to race past him on the wrong
side. Bobs was as quick as his rider to watch for these vagrants, and
at the first hint of a breakaway he would be off in pursuit. It was
work the pair loved.

"Hundred and thirty," said Mr. Linton, as the last lumbering beast
trotted past him, and, finding the way clear, with no harrowing
creatures to annoy him and head him back to his mates, kicked up his
heels and made off across the paddock.